by S. L. Scott
The Redemption
First Edition
Copyright © S. L. Scott 2014
The right of S.L. Scott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-940071-25-1
Interior design: Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
https://www.facebook.com/FictionalFormats
Cover design: Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations
http://www.okaycreations.com/
Cover photographer: Kari Branch
Cover model: John Humphrey
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
A Personal Note
About the Author
Sadness surrounds me and I feel bad for not feeling worse.
I stand at the back, near a tree, separate from the families and friends that have gathered. I stay back here, away from the crowd, and watch her. She tries to hide her devastation and tears behind big sunglasses that she slipped down over her eyes minutes before.
Her hair is down, hanging over her shoulders and longer than I remember from the last time I saw her. It’s been too long since then. But even in the middle of a sea of black, she still stands out, strikingly beautiful and I’m drawn to her, wanting to be with her in ways I can’t.
With all of these people around, I’m finding it hard to swallow despite being outdoors. A lump formed in my throat earlier this week, making me wonder what caused it. Maybe guilt. Squeezing my hand tightly around the coin, I realize a tragedy has given me hope where none existed before. And despite one of my closest friends dying, an uncertain future, and the realization that with his death, my life has been forever changed, I can’t stop thinking about the woman he left behind.
The funeral was… it was what it was. Johnny and Holli drove me and the kids home. There were too many people staring at me, waiting for my breakdown. I needed the silence of the ride to be able to face the waiting mourners at my house, and they gave that to me. Just after we park, Johnny turns to me and says, “The Resistance is a family. We take care of one another. I’ll always be here for you, Rochelle.”
I nod, not sure I can speak under the weight of my emotions. I want today to become a distant memory sooner than I should. I don’t want to remember Cory’s death. I want to remember his life, his life with me, his life with our four-year-old. It’s a life that our newborn will never get to experience and the significance of that drags me under. I rush out of the car right before the first tear slips down, but I wipe it away before anybody can see.
But he sees.
Antonio Dexter Caggiano sees right through the facade I put on for everyone else, but doesn’t move from Neil’s side. He knows where he’s needed without me saying. They sit on the tire swing together, spinning slowly, talking, bonding in a way that seems almost abnormal for the man I’ve always known Dex to be. A magic trick reveals a pair of drumsticks and Dex hands them to Neil. My oldest son starts banging on the tire and up the chains, happily distracted from the sadness of the day.
Staring across the lawn—faded black jeans, long, shaggy hair, bandana back in place after we left the cemetery—I find the most unlikely ally on such a depressing day. He’s just here, silently supportive without asking anything of me.
Dex is kind to spend time with the boys. He has a playful smile on his face, and assuming from Neil’s laughter, which I hear echoing across the yard, Dex is also funny. He left his ego at home, an anomaly from every other day. He’s fascinating to watch. Kids are genuine in their emotions and Neil seems to like Dex.
Neil deserves laughter and fun, but he also deserves his father. I get up and move to the side of the yard where I plant my small garden each year. My tears water the lettuce that is just starting to grow. Cory planted that. I wanted strawberries.
I stomp on it. With both feet, I jump up and land down on the plant because he didn’t live to see it grow. “Damn you!” Picking it up, I rip it from the ground and throw it against the fence. “Damn you, Cory!”
A burning regret coats my insides as I panic and rush to pick it up. Through watery-vision, I drop to my knees and take it in hand, holding it to my chest. Suddenly strong arms wrap around me from behind, pulling me into his lap. Dex’s body against mine feels so foreign and yet, like the only place safe for me to grieve.
The sobs break free, the ones that I’ve been holding back all day, and my body is wracked with every emotion that I don’t want anyone else to see. My breakdown feels like a failure. I should be the one to comfort others today. Pressing my head against his shoulder, the light hum in his chest is soothing. “He left me, Dex. He left me here all by myself to raise the boys on my own. I can’t do it.”
“You can. You will. I’ll be here for you.”
He’s the least expected person to find comfort in, but he’s the only one that feels right. I nod. My head is tucked under his chin while his fingers gently but firmly open my fisted hand. He takes the lettuce that is destroyed and sad, just like me, and says, “It’s gonna be okay. Maybe not for the lettuce, but you’re gonna be okay.”
We sit there a few minutes, the slight breeze feeling good against my hot face. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I will be okay. It’s hard to tell right now. With a deep breath and even heavier exhale, I look up into his eyes and all that he said is repeated in his expression. I get up and start walking to the backyard again. He follows, but he stops and plants the lettuce back into the garden, and says, “It’s worth a shot.”
“Yeah, it’s worth a shot.”
We come from around the corner and Dex goes inside without another word and I join Neil on the swing. No one’s the wiser that I almost fell apart, or that Dex held me together. My strength is back on display for everyone else. His bad boy reputation as the drummer for one of the biggest bands in the world is back intact.
Six months later…
It’s hot in here. I need fresh air; the crowded party is steamy from all the bodies crammed into the living room. Looking out at the pool area, it’s not any better. “I’m gonna walk around,” I say, leaving the safety of Johnny’s side.
“I’ll be here,” he replies before taking a drink of his beer. Johnny Outlaw may be one of the most famous musicians in the world and the lead singer
of The Resistance, but he’s also been a shoulder for me to cry on. He’s like the brother I never had. Along with that role, he’s become very protective of me in public settings and these types of situations. Holli, his wife, is usually here to keep me company, but she had a business trip and is out of town. So I’m here with the guys from the band. That’s a lot of testosterone to be around while drinking your sorrows away.
Remembering there’s a small balcony off the master bedroom, I head for the stairs. The balcony has a great vantage point overlooking the pool. Dex is the master of throwing awesome parties and he’s gone all out for his birthday. Everyone from Academy Award winning Directors to young starlets jumping at any casting couch opportunity that comes along is here. Current rock musicians are mingling with Pop Princesses, and I just spotted Tommy, the tour manager with some of our roadies at the bar. I used to be more of a free spirit, comfortable in social settings… when Cory was alive. But my happiness died when he did. I never imagined I would be expected to live in a world without my heart. I’d gotten good at hiding my sadness, but lately I’ve been struggling to put on a happy face for others.
Dex’s party is a sea of beautiful people and definitely intimidating. The heat and drinks making my mind blur into a mixture of emotions. I start walking faster, hoping to stave off the panic attack I feel coming on.
I pass some familiar faces, saying hi as I walk by. Seeing other people, the ones I don’t know, makes me want to lower my gaze to the floor and block out the stares. Sometimes the stares bother me. I was relatively unrecognizable before Cory’s death, but I made headlines as the ‘Poor Widow’ and my photo was everywhere. So I see the looks, the sideways glances, and feel the sympathy lying heavy from their curiosity. Nights like this usually help me escape the sadness of losing the only man I ever loved. Alcohol also helps, so I down a shot and slowly make my way upstairs, trying not to let the liquor knock me off-balance.
The double doors of the master bedroom are closed along with the other bedroom doors down the hall. Taking the knob in hand, I turn slowly. It opens and I’m greeted with darkness. I’m hoping no one is in here doing something I don’t want to see or hear, so I enter with caution. Although there is no light except for the moonlight coming in from the balcony doors, I walk in when I hear silence. Closing the door behind me, I don’t bother looking around. I just go to the French doors and open them wide. The night is clearer up here, the miles of LA lights laid out before me with a stunning view of the city. The area around the pool below is more crowded than I realized when I was in the mix of it.
A heavy exhale of smoke draws my gaze to the left. Dex sits forward resting his elbows on his knees and eyes me.
He doesn’t look bothered that I’m here, but I feel the need to explain anyway. “I wanted… I needed to get away.”
“From what?” he asks while stubbing his cigarette into an ashtray on the Spanish tile.
I lean against the doorframe, my head resting back, my eyes lulled closed by the voices carrying up from below. Over the last six months, we haven’t spent a lot of time together, but he’s stopped by a few times to talk, reminisce, or just sit with someone who knows what he’s going through, empathizing through moments of silent understanding. He makes it easy to just be, to be whatever I need to be. “Everything… from me.”
“It’s hard to escape yourself.”
“I know. I’ve tried.”
“Me too.” The ice in his glass shifts, clanging against the walls of the double old-fashioned. I look just as he sets it down, and asks, “Drink?”
“Sure,” I reply. “Why are you trying to escape?”
“Sometimes being the bad guy sucks.”
“You’re not a bad guy.”
“Everyone else thinks I am.”
“I like to think you just play one on TV… or in your case, on stage. The infamous bad boy drummer of The Resistance isn’t all that bad, you know.”
He hands me his glass and I hold it up to toast him. “Happy birthday, Dex.” The straight bourbon feels thick as it slides down my throat.
His expression changes and he stands, moving behind me, his chest against my back. “Do I get a birthday wish?”
I feel his every breath coming in and out, each one hot against my neck. My heart starts beating faster, the air that felt freer moments before now ripe with innuendoes. This tension between us is new, but I like it. The hesitation I thought I would feel drowned with the last gulp of his drink. I take one last breath before turning, my gaze now meeting his. “Make a wish.”
The warmth of his hand covers my cheek and his lips are pressed to mine and mine to his, connecting us like never before. I would have thought I’d get careful, gentle, tentative. I get pressure swarmed with confidence, a wanting that feels more lustful, caressed in need. My body reacts, moving closer, edging into the kiss, wanting it, needing it. I’m pulled inside, the doors shut behind and he whispers, “Too many people can see up here.”
I nod, though I’m not sure he can see as I stand in the shadows of the curtain. He’s seen clearly, the window panes reflecting an abstract design across his body. Taking a sip, his eyes find mine. There’s nothing hurried about his movements as he takes me in. While setting his glass down on the table nearby, he says, “I’ve wanted to kiss you longer than you’ll understand, longer than I had a right to.”
Licking my lips, the action involuntary, I’m starting to think that maybe I’ve wanted to kiss him longer than I had the right to as well. But I see him. I’ve always seen the real him and not the showman or the manwhore he wants everyone else to see. I see the way the light reflects in his brown eyes, giving them more life than one would expect when labeled just “brown.” The liquid tone of where sand meets the ocean at night might do them more justice. His eyes are lighter than mine, and hold a history completely different. But they draw me in, his body wagering me closer.
When I go, I lift up this time to kiss him. With a tilt of our heads, our mouths open and our tongues meet. I shouldn’t want him like I do. It’s wrong to feel this way, but every physical urge I have overrides my thoughts and deepens as our breaths become each others.
Immersed in a passion that alleviates other burdens I’ve carried for too long, I enjoy the loss of control, my tension slipping away as he maneuvers me back toward the bed. I go willingly in all ways, wanting to grab hold of this feeling of freedom and release it sexually. I sit as he stands in front of me. The expression on his face highlights his handsome structure—a cut jaw, strong when juxtaposed against his soft gaze. I realize he hides behind his sunglasses so much that I’d forgotten how truly striking he is. His hair is shorter than a year ago, but still hits just below his chin in a jagged-style, carefree and uncalculated.
He slips his shirt off, dropping it to his feet before leaning down and popping open the front of my jeans. I let him as I lean back on my elbows. My shoes come off and then my jeans, slowly, but with no doubt. Neither of us are naïve to what’s happening or what’s to come. I sit up and take my shirt off before lying back down and asking for the drink. When he hands it to me, I finish the amber liquid and take an ice cube into my mouth, finishing the remaining traces.
Standing up, I demand, “Take your jeans off and lay down.” I set the glass back on the dresser across the room and when I return, his lean, muscular body, all six-foot-three of him is on the bed. Crawling up the large mattress, I sit down on his middle, his hardness feeling so good between my legs. I take the ice from my mouth and it drips on his abs, making them twitch. Another drip and another.
“You like to tease,” he says, not a question, just an observation.
I lean down and run my tongue over each drop, my chest pressed to his erection.
Lifting my eyes up to watch him, I drag my tongue lower and slower before hearing him mutter, “Fuck.”
His head falls back and his eyes close. I drag my fingers over the ups and downs of his defined muscles, appreciating every sit up he does for this exact reason. Whe
n I blow across his stomach, his reaction is felt everywhere. Sitting up, he pulls me by my arms and flips me under him in one smooth move. Desperate lips are pressed against mine as his hips flex down, his knees maneuvering my legs apart. Ten inches taller than me, but our bodies seem to fit in so many ways. He kisses my neck and I moan unexpectedly, well aware I just made the only sound in the room. Lifting up, he looks at my face as his hand gently squeezes my left breast. “You’re beautiful. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
If I thought the moan was unexpected… that tops it.
Never knowing he thought this about me, I’m not sure what to say, so I lift up and kiss him instead. I let the bourbon take over for a bit and enjoy the other ten inches he has on me. His hips come down again, and my body tingles from the contact, my hips reacting by moving against him.
My chest presses against his as his body weighs down on top of mine. Another moan escapes me as our tongues caress. The slightly rough skin of his hand slides under my bra and he takes me firmly, massaging and peaking my nipples. Rolling onto our sides, our mouths part and our eyes meet again. With a soft whisper between us, he asks, “You sure?”
I reply with a kiss to his cheek before I roll onto my back and unfasten my bra. After dropping it to the floor, I lift my hips up, removing my thong. The moonlight streaks in, accentuating the want found in his eyes as he stares at my body. Boxer briefs are removed and he lies next to me. When I look over at him, the reality of the situation is clear even through the wavy goggles of alcohol. His penis is long, thickly attractive, smooth, but hard. He reaches for a packet from a drawer next to the bed and rolls a condom on before turning to me and staring at me without reservation. His gaze is heavy enough to feel as it envelops me in desire. The way his tongue slides over his bottom lip while looking at me makes me anxious for more. But I remain still, letting his lust linger between us, building, just like my yearning for him.